


Tens Across the Board

by bicycles



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossdressing, Drag Queens, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 10:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bicycles/pseuds/bicycles
Summary: Eames discovers Arthur's YouTube channel where Arthur discusses RuPaul's drag race and wears women's make-up. Cue everything that follows such a discovery.





	Tens Across the Board

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by two kink meme prompts. [This](https://inception-kink.livejournal.com/3434.html?thread=3497322#t3497322) and the one about RuPaul. Title taken from season 10 opener of drag race.

It is late at night when they reach the motel. The two of them are in charge of following the mark, learning as much as possible to make the job a success. That task has led them here. It isn't the ideal stakeout location. Honestly, Arthur would have preferred somewhere without cigarette stains on the walls or a hole in the wall that's shaped like a fist. But he likes the job, it's quick and easy. And it lets him spend more time with Eames. Since the Fischer job, they've grown closer, close enough that Arthur _almost_ doesn't mind sharing a ratty motel room with cigarette stains on the walls.

Eames has already made himself at home when Arthur comes in. He's carrying their single suitcase, a combination of suits and well-worn paisley. It will always be obvious whose is whose, even when they are so close to being one. Eames, for his part, has his feet propped on the appalling bedspread, scrolling through his phone. 

"Arthur, darling…" A pause. Even in the dim light, he can see the look of amusement on Eames's face. "I've never seen you so undone over… a TV show."

"I haven't any idea what you are on about, Mr. Eames." He doesn't bother removing his own shoes as he joins the other on the bed. The bedspread is already a lost cause, and well, it isn't as if they will be there more than one night. 

Eames rearranges their feet until their limbs are a tangled web of neatly polished leather and scuff marks. Arthur doesn't mind as he leans his head on Eames's shoulder, peering at the phone. He is tired, and so he doesn't recognize the app until it is too late. 

"Oh, don't you darling? Don't you want to slay the runway? Shall I --" Eames's breath is warm on his cheek. 

For his part, Arthur doesn't color at the words. He simply loosens his tie and leans back into the pillows. "We all have secrets in our line of work."

It isn't a secret, really. If it were, he'd not have made the videos public. As it is, he should have expected that Eames was as meticulous as he was. In their line of work… He moves his hand from his tie, pulling Eames -- and by chance the phone -- down with him. He doesn't want to think what would happen if they weren't meticulous, if they weren't always checking up on each other. 

"So, I watch RuPaul and vlog about it? _Darling_..." Here, when Arthur borrows Eames's words and tastes the vowels on his tongue, he feels Eames shudder. "Please tell me that isn't a surprise to you." 

In Arthur's opinion, it is far from incriminating for an out (and definitely taken) gay man to have a blog about drag queens. And so what if those drag queens participate in RuPaul's own competition? And what if they were, at this moment, casing a criminal who frequented drag bars? And what if, in the process of researching this job and his own hobbies, he'd thrown on a little make-up? Eames has done far worse. 

"Yes, but how delicious…" Eames sets the phone aside, pressing lips to the shell of Arthur's ear, to his cheek, until their lips are finally touching. Until he is practically swallowing Arthur down, down, _down_. They are too far apart, and yet too close as Eames toes off their shoes, one by one. It is a difficult job, even for one so well-versed in difficult cases. "Who knew you were the one who looked such a doll in make-up? Who had…" 

Their eyes meet, and then he pulls Eames closer, cutting him off. 

"I can think of a few people." 

In part, it is true, Arthur has more than enough followers on his YouTube channel. But none of them are Eames, possessive, jealous, wrapped around him now as though nothing else in the world matters. When he breathes in, all he can feel is _want_. He pushes up into the other's embrace. 

"But none of them are you."

Arthur's words are barely spoken as Eames swallows him down completely.

\----

The job is a successful one. He and Eames stake out the wanted criminal, carefully placing in the dream the client's information and, on a whim, the value of lace-front wigs (all Arthur). It isn't until weeks later that Eames brings up the YouTube videos again. 

"Tell me, love," Eames is at their shared table, scrolling through his phone, "how does one get their eyebrows so -- feminine?"

Arthur doesn't look up from his laptop, where he is researching their next job and sending messages off to the team. He knows immediately the video to which Eames is referring. Normally, his make-up is far lighter, if there at all. Eyeliner, some eyeshadow. The one-off of full make-up is from a season finale years ago. It is, admittedly, one of his prouder moments.

"Glue," and knowing that his boyfriend now has an eyebrow raised, "don't tell me you've never thought of it?"

The lack of response is answer enough. Arthur eyes Eames over the top of his computer. Their next job is all but forgotten. "Never?"

"I forge women, pet. I've hardly had to be bothered with their beauty regimens."

"It is different," Arthur argues, "when you are a man playing the part of a woman."

"So it is, and yet here…" Eames puts down his phone and leans across the table to shut Arthur's laptop. "I have the perfect teacher."

They eye each other for several moments. Then, as though it has always been decided this way, Arthur says, "Philippa may have left one here. The purple kind is the best." He pauses as he gets to his feet. He is uncertain of this ground, uncertain because although Eames has often played the part of a woman in dreams, they have never done this. The videos are different. Public, yes, but not _theirs_ , not part of their shared entity. "That is, if you are game for it?"

"Think I might be able to be persuaded to it." 

That is enough for Arthur. He gets the glue, concealer, a hand full of brushes that haven't been used in years. He has been keeping in three-drawer tote in their bathroom, in a place Eames never bothers to look. He lays them out on the table, eyes fixed on Eames as he does, hesitation in each of his movements.

"Don't worry. It comes off." He doesn't add _eventually_.

"Who," says Eames, pulling Arthur into his lap, until Arthur is braced with his legs on either side of Eames's lap, back against the table, "says I am worried?"

And so, under the harsh glow of the kitchen light, he applies purple glue to Eames's brows. It is better to use the sticks, he has learned, and to wait until the color has faded to know it is dry. It is better still to trace a hand across Eames's lips as they wait, to press light kisses into the crease of the other's neck, fingers lazily tracing the other's collar bone.

Better still when Eames shifts beneath him, until they are positioned _just so_. Until Arthur doesn't think either of them is breathing anymore. Until all he can feel is Eames, pressed up against him, eager, anticipating. 

" _Darling_ \--" The stolen word as he applies concealer, eyeliner, just the right amount of shadow. He is breathing in all of Eames until they are just one person, one set of lungs, lips, heart. Arthur says it again, tracing Eames's cheekbones, "Darling, I --"

"I know." 

When Eames finally has him, back on the table, legs wrapped around hips, he can be forgiven for not knowing the exact logistics of how and who and what and where. All he knows is _want_ and _yes_ and _please, pet, do that again_. 

\---

It is a shared game now, one in which they are equally matched. It is as though his internet history has come back to play a delicious, stake-raising part in their relationship. Arthur has never had any trouble being adventurous; he just never thought that he, adventurous, and Eames would ever be together in the same story.

"Those, love, are to die for." Eames points at a pair of glittery purple heels. They are in a New Look, tailing a mark who has a penchant for cheap, somewhat tasteless clothes. "I think they'd be perfect for our own runway challenge," he adds, in a lower, rougher voice.

"Hm?" Arthur's eyes aren't on the shoes. They are following a red-headed woman as she moves towards the fitting room. When she disappears, he sidesteps a clearance rack and follows Eames's gaze. "No." It is enough to remind Eames that _dressing him_ is _not_ a part of the job. They are working for Cobb again, and Arthur will have no mistakes.

"Oh, come off it, love. It'll only be a minute. She will be much, much longer." 

Arthur considers. The purple stilettos are a no, as are the red strappy heels to the side. When his gaze falls on a pair of heeled boots, he has already made his decision. "Those," he says.

"Always the classy one," Eames says in his ear, as he picks them off the shelf. They are fortunate that they fit, barely, and even more so, that no one questions their purchase of women's shoes. 

It will be quite some time before Arthur can wear the shoes without stumbling, more before he learns -- at the careful direction of Eames -- to walk _properly_. It doesn't matter. They are barely home before Eames is dressing him, undressing him except for the shoes, pressing him into a wall, into the couch, the bed, saying, _yes, love, yes._


End file.
